Carmine Leaves
by Makalaure
Summary: Maglor of the Noldor and Elemmire of the Vanyar, after the Darkening of Valinor. This is not slash.


A/n: In the stories I write, Maglor and Elemmírë are close friends.

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Silmarillion_.

**Carmine Leaves**

I had been trying to finish some work – a composition I had not been sponsored to do, but that I wanted to complete all the same – but at some point I gave up, and am now sitting listlessly in my study at the university, my fingers pattering lightly over the papers before me on my desk. The edges of my digits are smudged with burgundy ink; I will have to wash them later before my evening meal, which, depressingly, I will sit down to with only candlelight to aid my vision. I am used to Telperion's soft glow edging into the dining hall and casting a pewter gleam to the high, domed ceiling with water lily patterned mosaics made of onyx and gold.

Often, at night, when all the work was done and the students had left for their chambers, I would go to the dining hall with Makalaurë and we would sit at a trestle table by one of the high, mullioned windows, talking quietly of songs and poets and the vastness of Valinor, and occasionally of the mediocrity of some of the artists and architects of Valmar, whose only notable traits, according to me, are the deep-sounding brass bells and the barefooted dancers with blue ribbons in their hair. This is ironic, for I myself am from that city, and though I would rather settle amongst the Noldor – they are more intelligent, I think, and friendlier and less pretentious – my wheat-coloured hair gives away my lineage.

I hiss and chew the end of my pen, leaning back in my chair. Makalaurë is actually the reason for my unease today. Of late he has grown moody and somewhat distant, and replies to neither my letters nor my messengers. The few times he responds he scribbles that he is busy, that his family is forcing him to meet them frequently, that his wife is unhappy with his father, who has been creating no small amount of chaos in Tirion thanks to his rousing speeches. I tell Makalaurë I understand, that he needs to hold to his beliefs and not sway beneath his father's hand, but I would be lying if I said I am not unhappy with him for barely speaking to me; for I consider him my closest friend, even if he himself has a long string of such friends and acquaintances.

He said in his last letter that he wanted to talk with me. It was not a long script; there was a customary _I hope you are well_ and a _Yours truly _aside from his odd request. I say _odd_ because usually we decide on a time and a place, and then rather happily spend the day together. Often we take a walk around the sweet-scented rose-gardens, or strike up idle chatter with flautists sitting at their window-panes, or ride to Alqualondë and buy platefuls of fresh, hot mussels and find our way around the lively, lamplit streets decorated with seashells, the sea-wind singing in our ears.

I blink and purse my lips. I have just realised that we have not done such a thing in about a year. Why is this so? We have always made time for each other. Suddenly, there appears to be a gulf between us that I feel I can never again cross. That any meeting with him now will be awkward and pointless. That he no longer wishes me to be his companion.

Friendships in Valinor tend to last. Even if sometimes there is a distance of a few hours between people, they generally write letters regularly and visit every so often, and their memory is ever embedded into each other's spirits. It is rare, though I suppose not difficult, for such bonds to snap.

A loud rap to my door disturbs me, and I almost tip backwards and fall to the slate floor in surprise. "What is it?" I ask.

"Master Makalaurë is here to see you." It is one of my students.

Straightening, and more nervous and annoyed than I want to admit, I call, "Send him in, then!"

"He wishes to meet you outside, by the side-entrance."

_Outside?_ I arch an eyebrow. Why is he not inviting himself in? The heaviness in my chest grows. I put down my quill, rise to my feet and exit my chamber to find that the student has disappeared. Resisting the urge to pinch my brow, I make my way along the corridor, down the winding staircase at the dimly lit north wing of the building, and finally arrive in the oddly spacious alley at which the side-entrance is situated. The walls of the library loom above my head, parallel to the university, scraping the starlit sky. _Mother_ _Varda, lend me strength..._

"Elemmírë."

I jump. Makalaurë is standing beneath one of the library's windows, clad in his riding boots and his cobalt cloak. His plaited hair is a mess from his ride here, though I can tell he has patted it down. I squint, for I cannot see his face clearly in the dark – there is only one lamp in this alley, and it is at the far end. "For heaven's sake," I grumble, "Laurelin should be waning now, switching places with her brother." Then I smile, though it feels strained, like drying dough being forcibly stretched. "How fare you?"

Makalaurë does not return the grin but says, "I'm not entirely sure..." He trails off, eyes cast to the ground, looking confused and apprehensive.

There is a silence. I do not know what to say. It would be silly to respond, 'Why, what happened?' because I already know. Most in Valinor are at their wits' end, but the Fëanorian household seems to be, from what hearsay I have gathered from around Tirion, little more than a tumble of chaos. I still cannot believe Makalaurë is not the one who informed me of this, and have to suck my teeth to hold back a frown.

At length I say, thinking it is the best option, "You can tell me more once we're out of this alleyway; it's not suited for conversation. We can take a walk."

Makalaurë pauses, then glances to where the street begins, as if he is afraid that people might ambush us – or eavesdrop on our talk. Then he shakes his head and says, "I'd rather go inside. My chamber."

"It'll be dusty," I protest. "You haven't used it in months, and it's not like attendants sweep the floor here or something. Let's go to my chamber, if we must." I take his arm before he can argue and tug him inside. I note that he doesn't smell of what he usually does: sandalwood and rainwater. Earthy, calm, yet untamed. Like Makalaurë. I never told him – I have my pride – but I always loved that smell.

Right now he smells of dust and wind and fear, and I am worried for him, and when he uncharacteristically trips on a stair I steady him and tell him so. He averts his eyes. In this narrow, torch-lit stairway they appear darker than they already are, shaded by his lashes.

When I usher him into my chamber he stands stiffly by my desk, gaze skimming over my work while I sit on my small, unmade bed by the arched window. The light from the candelabra on table lends a pale glow to his face and deepens the shadows beneath his eyes and around his mouth. I know he is trying to be serious, but in this lighting he looks, to me, as if he is acting in a play in the open-air theatre at the base of Taniquetil, where the smoothly wrought seats are hewed from the rock of the mountain and the stage is of slate, built over flat land. Often the plays are devoted to the Valar, and satire is forbidden, though comedies have sometimes been staged.

Makalaurë's breathing has grown erratic. "It's not finished yet," I say to fill the blossoming silence. "But you can read it if you want."

He runs his fingers across the notes, and I suddenly notice his digits are splotchy with nicks and bruises. There is also on his collarbone a small, half-healed wound, straight like a toothpick. I am about to ask about this when he says curtly, "You know what's happening."

"What?" Usually, it is I who change the topic rapidly in mid-swing. Makalaurë tends to have more tact.

He continues: "In Tirion. The Noldor are rebelling against the Valar."

"Of course I know that! You can't tell me you rode all the way here from outside the city to tell me this?"

He looks sharply at me and snaps, allowing me to catch a glimpse of the anxiety in his heart, "Are you insane? I know you're more well-informed than that!" Then he drops his voice and says, "I was going to say more."

"Then why didn't you?" I ask, growing annoyed. He screws his eyes shut, clenches his fist and sighs heavily, though this is not, I feel, directed at me. After chewing his lip for nearly half a minute he says slowly, "We are planning to leave Valinor."

I stare, his words so alien and so utterly unthinkable that for a moment I cannot comprehend them. Then I shake my head, raise my hands and say dumbly, "_Who?_"

"Father is planning to leave for the Ennor with the rest of the Noldor. The whole of Tiri – "

I leap up and grasp his shoulders, shaking him. "That's the worst joke I've heard yet, Káno." _Káno_. I haven't spoken that nickname in such a long time. It tastes almost new on my tongue, like an old recipe one was fond of but didn't eat again till years later. "Now, stop trying to frighten me. It won't work." I had always been a poor fibber, and Makalaurë can see me clear as a fresh mountain-stream.

"It's not a joke," he insists, at last looking me in the eye despairingly. "You know – everyone knows – he's been planning it for a while. But now he's putting it into action. And I – "

I tighten my grip and interrupt, "You're not leaving!" My tone is somewhere between questioning and astounded. Suddenly the situation jeopardises more than our friendship. If followed through, this plan will be catastrophic. I can feel it deep in the fibre of my flesh. Makalaurë can, too; it is evident in his expression, in his posture, in his quivering voice that betrays his father-name.

He says, "I never thought it would actually happen. Or perhaps I did, and I denied it." He holds his head in his hands and lets out a pathetic sound.

"But how will you reach the Outer Lands?" I ask, hoping to deter him. "You will need ships, which you do not have, or else will have to fly, which you cannot do." Is there another way? I dig around my mind, desperately searching for other options, hoping there will be none.

Makalaurë grits his teeth and presently sits on my chair. Slinging an arm over the back, he says, "Father is planning to ask the Teleri for their ships." By his tone I know he thinks they will refuse. He notes my sceptical expression and continues, "You know how persuasive he can be."

"You mean 'manipulative'," I say caustically, not pretending to be civil any longer. I had never enjoyed Fëanáro's company. He scrutinises everything with a scientific, detached gaze, seeing even people as mere means to an end. I don't know how the Noldor can follow him so easily, as if their ears are geared to hear his angry speeches as supple birdsong.

"Don't talk about him that way," Makalaurë protests quietly, tiredly. He knows I'm right, the damn fool. Must he distress himself so?

I return loudly, "I'll talk about him any way I please! This is not a time for honey-slicked tongues too cowardly to lay things bare!"

"Come with us."

"_What?_"

He is silent, forehead puckered heavily, posture deceptively slack.

I strike his jaw, hard. The _crack_ sound is sharp and short in my small room, as if muffled by a heavy curtain. He has the audacity to look surprised, eyes wide, agape, like he has just seen a fairy or woken from an unsavoury dream. "Are you trying to doom me to a repugnant death?"

"Please," he rasps, not bothering to rub his reddening cheek but wincing. "Mother, too, refused."

"And with good reason!" I return. It is my turn to plead. "What is the use of another death? Haven't you had enough?" I suddenly jolt, fleeting realisation sweeping over me. "Káno," I say quietly. "Your neck...have you been fighting with swords and bows? You could not have been hunting – that would be ridiculous at a time like this." I turn around and violently fling open the green wooden shutters of the window, needing good air. Despite my pale relief I utter a string of profanities that would make the Black Foe's speech sound like a saccharine Vanyarin sonnet.

Putting my face in my hands I continue to curse, albeit more softly. Eventually the stream of foul words grows thin and dies, and leaves as its residue a pregnant silence. With my sight obscured it is almost as if Makalaurë has disappeared. Perhaps he left while I was distracted; he likely could not tolerate any more of me. In his place I may have done the same – but in some ways I am more adamant than he. I have already defied my father's wishes once; why would I be unable to do so again? He wanted me to stay in Valmar, to take over our candle-and-incense shop, to sing hymns in praise of the Valar and perhaps also work in one of the sandstone temples of Manwë.

I hear Makalaurë's breathing, and suddenly feel the weight of his head on my shoulder. His odd, unfamiliar scent drifts to my nose. I do not remove my hands from my face. He puts his arms around me, and they are warm and somewhat stifling.

We stay thus for a time, two figures in a city that folk across the Sea know of through only stories and stacks of old accounts lying in forgotten chambers. Little we have to do with the Dark Elves in their stone halls hidden beneath a tangle of knotted branches and half-flowering vines that have never witnessed the Light of the Trees.

I say quietly, "Do not leave, Káno."

"I should go." His breath stirs the fabric of my tunic.

"You can live with me. You know I'm not fussy."

"Russandol is waiting at Father's house. He will worry."

My face has by now grown hot, and I let my hands drop to my sides, but I rest my cheek against his temple. Never have I harboured ill feeling towards Makalaurë's strangely coloured older brother, but now his name slinks into my ears like mire, and I frown and grit my teeth.

Beating down the heaviness in my chest, I say, "You will see many things, for good or ill. May you find people you cherish, and who cherish you."

"The former is likely," he says, "but for sinners there lies nothing but hatred and despair."

"The intention – "

He interrupts, lifting his head slightly, "Enough, Elemmírë." Then, almost randomly, as if he is writing a letter: "Dear, dear friend. I wish you happiness, and if I return, I hope I am changed little or for the better." His words for a brief moment reassure me of our bond, but then dissipate from my mind.

He draws away and, either callously or nostalgically, stares at the small bookshelf by the door, then at the three piles of brown leather-bound volumes on my desk. I had acquired those a fortnight ago from the library, as my mind had then been not on sedition but on an odd metre in one of Rúmil's lesser-known poems. This, unfortunately, had grown into a re-inspection of nearly all his work, and, in the manner of a typical academic, I had for a time been nearly consumed by it.

Makalaurë offers a dry chuckle. "I love Rúmil's work," he says, "more than the man himself. I'm a terrible person, aren't I?"

"You speak truly."

He takes my face in his hands and, closing his eyes, kisses my forehead. His mouth is hot and dry, like the stems of the smoked corn that is sold on the streets. "Fare you well." He pauses. "Elemmírë." The smile he gives is brittle and is marred by the shadows his creased forehead casts over his eyes.

I say, opening the door, which groans rudely, "I will escort you downstairs," but he shakes his head. "I'd…rather not." He turns and, giving a last quirk of the lips, leaves the room, his footsteps hardly perceptible in the narrow corridor. I do not follow him, stunned at his sudden loss.

My heartbeat quickens. I imagine throwing some clothes and books into my old satchel and dashing after Makalaurë, crossing the ice-strewn Sea with him, into a strange world where roses have thorns and rivers run dark with Elvish blood. I imagine staying with him in a tent as new strongholds rise and new kingdoms are wrought and then destroyed.

I don't go after him. Instead, stupefied, I shut the door and collapse in my chair. The only sounds are the dim chatter of people outside the building and the louder crackle of the candle-flames. Bowing my head, I stare at my hands, curled like white crabs on my lap. They are useless, filthy things that craft things of great beauty and little use, better suited to squirm through sand than rest on precious paper.

Glancing back at the table, I ponder my work. When I have to chew my lower lip to prevent tears, I turn around, snatch my pen and begin to write. My fingers fly across the pages, treacherously unveiling my mind. For the first time, I care not. Words are written and scratched out, ideas taken and discarded. I omit profanity, but I use no euphemisms, which is strange for an Elvish script, and I stress certain parts more than others, which is considered maladroit. I continue the work through the night, into the morning that I know will be stained with carmine.

When at last I put down my quill, I know it is not nearly finished. It will take months to complete. I know what I will call it.

_Aldudénië. _

**The end**

**Notes:**

**_Aldudénië_ is the work Elemmírë of the Vanyar wrote. It is a lament for the Darkening of Valinor. **


End file.
